Princess Play

by Barbara Ismail

  ‘A main puteri, Kakak, that’s what we’ll do. You know, when you lose your balance, so to speak, jinn can invade you and they’ll make you miserable. When you’re restored, the jinn leave. They don’t have a chance.’ A soft giggle passed around the group, as much for relief as anything else.

  ‘When can we do it?’ Rubiah asked.

  Pak Nik Lah thought. ‘We will do it for both Kakak Maryam and Mek Aliza,’ he smiled.

  ‘My hair!’ Aliza burst out.

  ‘I know,’ he said kindly. ‘We’ll wait a bit so you’re stronger. But you must promise me, Kakak, you will eat, and you will rest, or you won’t be strong enough.’ He suddenly looked stern.

  Maryam sniffed and blew her nose. ‘I will.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He stood up. ‘I am so glad. I know this will succeed.’ He said his goodbyes, and left with Mamat to make arrangements.

  Everyone else clustered about her, talking excitedly. Rubiah got to her feet and announced she was going home to cook.

  ‘And you’ll eat it,’ she warned Maryam. ‘No more arguments!’ She held up her hand as if to ward them off, but Maryam said nothing.

  ‘And I’m taking over the stall, every morning at least,’ Ashikin announced. Arrangements had already been made for Rubiah’s daughter Puteh to help out as well. ‘And don’t argue with me either,’ she warned.

  ‘I think you’re all taking advantage of this to order me around,’ Maryam grumbled, but she, too, was deeply relieved. She was loathe to admit it, but her sudden rages frightened even her, and she worried about her inability to focus on the case. And even though no cure had yet been done, just agreeing to it made her more confident. She would rest, she would eat, and she would find the murderer. Jinn or no jinn.

  Chapter XVI

  Osman sat stiffly on the bus from Kota Bharu to Ipoh. It left at night, so passengers could sleep through most of the 14-hour ride, although in Osman’s case, this was more hope than possibility. He had been afraid about leaving while Maryam was ill, and had postponed coming home, which infuriated his mother.

  ‘We have so much to do here!’ she scolded him. ‘Weddings don’t happen in a day!’

  Though he explained why he couldn’t leave just yet, she refused to be mollified. ‘Are you the only person on the whole police force?’ she asked.

  Even upon hearing what had happened to Maryam, she remained unmoved, and threatened to come to Kota Bharu and drag Osman home. He actually worried she would do that, humiliating him in front of his men. But thankfully, she had too much to do at home, as she told him; otherwise she’d be there.

  He thought Maryam now seemed to be improving. Mamat told him about the main puteri to come, and though he was surprised Maryam agreed to it, he felt strongly that she needed it. Now he believed he could leave for a little while to get married, without the whole investigation falling apart. Between Rahman and Maryam, neither at full capacity, but together still formidable, he felt sure things would go well. Especially with those two backed up by a newly invigorated Rubiah.

  He felt lighter than he had in months, as though the weight of the job, and of the foreign soil of Kelantan, had lifted from him. He would be home soon, where the smallest mumbled comment would be instantly understood and no one would look to him for advice or orders. His mother would not even look to him for agreement – she would expect her own orders to be followed, and quickly. He sighed with contentment.

  He saw his father waiting as the bus pulled into Ipoh. He was a mild-mannered man, accustomed to agreeing immediately with his wife rather than undergoing hours of futile wrangling, and he and Osman understood each other.

  Standing with him, with his suitcases at their feet, Osman looked around at the busy street, proprietarily proud of Ipoh’s commercial bustle. It was bigger and more energetic than Kota Bharu, and more cosmopolitan, too. He threw back his shoulders and straightened his spine: he was proud to be from Perak – and he was no foreigner here!

  His mother eyed him critically when he entered the house.

  ‘Look who’s here!’ his father cried jovially, beaming as though he had personally whisked Osman home from Kelantan. His two younger sisters bounced around him, inexplicably having suddenly matured into marriageable young women.

  ‘You look thin,’ his mother, Asmah, commented. ‘Don’t they feed you there?’

  Osman almost asked who ‘they’ were, who were responsible for him, but stifled himself quickly, giving her a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Oh, I eat fine,’ he assured her.

  She sniffed. ‘Then why are you thin? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘There’s plenty of food here for you. You must have missed good Perak food up there.’

  ‘Of course, he did,’ his father slapped him affectionately on the back. ‘Sit down and eat!’

  His family all sat down and regarded him closely, as though they weren’t sure he still knew how to eat. They waited expectantly, gauging his reaction to his native cuisine, and he did not disappoint.

  ‘Laksa!’ he cried, digging in enthusiastically to the soupy noodle-and-sour curry mixture. ‘Real laksa. I’ve missed it so much! In Kelantan, it’s very sweet, and thick, not like this.’ He took a large spoonful and looked blissful. ‘Oh, not like this at all.’

  Relieved and happy chatter broke out around him; the wanderer had returned, carried back by laksa.

  * * *

  His mother had Osman recumbent on the couch in the living room. He had changed into his sarong and T-shirt, and was paralyzed by the amount of food he had eaten. He fought to keep his eyes open and pay adequate attention to what his mother was telling him. He knew from experience there would be a test later.

  ‘You remember her,’ his mother stated, brooking no disagreement. ‘Mak Cik Nah’s husband’s sister’s daughter … she was at your grandmother’s party a couple of years ago.’

  Osman struggled to look thoughtful, but could bring to mind no memory other than the photo his mother had sent him. He concentrated on it and tried to flesh it out with a personality, but the only one which came to him was his mother’s.

  ‘Can you get her a job teaching in Kota Bharu? You’re the police chief, after all, and you must have influence.’ His mother leaned back and regarded him. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  He nodded dutifully.

  His mother smacked him on the leg with a newspaper. ‘Alright, Man. Now tomorrow, we have to get your wedding outfit ready. Cream is the wedding colour – pay attention! We’ll go to the tailor, and then we’ll get the waistcloth to match.’

  ‘I have one,’ Osman mumbled. ‘This lady in Kota Bharu gave it to me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who helped me with the murder, Mak Cik Maryam. She sells kain songket in the market. This is really top quality …’

  His mother sniffed. ‘We’ll see. Does it match cream?’

  Osman didn’t know how to answer. Match cream? Doesn’t everything? He dared not ask. ‘Yes, I’m sure …’

  His mother rose. ‘Go to sleep, you look tired. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go.’ She swept out of the living room, leaving Osman already half-asleep (a purely protective measure), relieved to know you can go home again.

  Chapter XVII

  Weddings were in the air. Since her mother had given up the reins, if only temporarily, Ashikin felt the responsibility devolved to her. It was time to get Azmi in gear: he did not really seem reluctant to move forward with Rosnah, but was certainly in need of a push, and she was just the one to give it to him. She called him at his army camp, using the phone in Daud’s parents store, and after several tries, finally got him on the line.

  ‘Azmi! It’s me, Ashikin.’

  ‘What’s up? Is something wrong? Is everyone alright?’

  ‘Fine. Abang,’ she said, getting quickly down to business (no point in spending money on a phone call about nothing). ‘Did you like Rosnah? My friend?’

  ‘I remember who she is,’ he answered a mite testily. ‘She seemed nice.’

  ‘We
ll, nice enough that Mak and Ayah should talk to her parents? Or not that nice?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Azmi,’ she said patiently, ‘don’t start sulking.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘You are,’ she said, unruffled. ‘But that’s OK. If you’re interested, we should do something pretty soon. It’s been a while. If not, tell me and I’ll let it go.’

  ‘I’d like to see her again once more before I say anything.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Adik! I’ve got to get leave and everything. I can’t work on your schedule!’

  ‘Get leave, then.’

  Ashikin was a veteran of many negotiations with Azmi, and knew the trick was not to get riled no matter what the provocation. He would soon calm down.

  ‘Adik!’ he repeated.

  ‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Just get leave for a day and I’ll arrange for us all to meet. That’s all you need. Otherwise,’ and now she brought out the stick, having exhausted the carrot, ‘Mak is going to start looking for girls on her own, and then you can talk to her and not me.’

  It was a real threat. Ashikin could be reasoned with; their mother was a different breed altogether. Azmi might well find himself married before he quite knew what had happened.

  ‘I’ll see when I can get leave. I thought she was nice,’ he said, calming down as his sister knew he would. ‘Pretty, too. I’ll call the store as soon as I know. Maybe we should all three have lunch? No – Daud, too. Make it four, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she replied, satisfied with the result of her call. ‘Let me know and I’ll take it from there.’

  She told Daud of the conversation that evening over dinner. ‘So, we’ll all meet for lunch,’ she concluded, ‘as soon as Azmi gets a day’s leave. I should check this out with Rosnah, don’t you think? Make sure she liked him.’

  Daud nodded absently.

  The next morning, Ashikin hopped on to the back of Daud’s motorbike, and they set out for Kedai Buluh, on the road to the beach where the Kelantan River ran into the sea. The village was dense with thickets of bamboo, and close enough to the ocean that the soil turned sandy. Ashikin always enjoyed coming here, where her beloved uncle Malek lived.

  While Kampong Penambang was also green when you left the main road into the maze of houses, yards and trees, it was more populated than Kedai Buluh, and there were gaps in the trees where houses sat, making room for the sun to fall on the swept, flat yards. Kedai Buluh had fewer houses and more gaps between the trees, along with an unbroken view of the Kelantan River as it headed to the South China Sea, stretching cool and blue to the horizon.

  Rosnah’s family owned a small budu factory, and made a variety of products from dried fish as well: keropok, puffy fried shrimp and fish chips; ikan bilis, dried anchovies sold as a condiment; and, of course, budu, a delectable fish sauce. The grounds were busy at mid-morning, with several women flattening dried fish in preparation for putting proto-budu out to ferment, and some men carrying large containers of fish. The smell was strong but not overpowering, as the sea breeze freshened the air.

  Ashikin walked into the small wooden building serving as an office while Daud wandered around outside, leaving his wife to undertake the delicate negotiations with her friend.

  ‘Rosnah!’ Ashikin greeted her as she walked in the door. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she answered, rising from behind the desk. ‘Just doing the invoices, you know. Come and sit down. Coffee, soda?’

  ‘Soda, thanks. It’s getting hot.’

  Rosnah walked over to a small fridge, took out two Green Spot orange sodas for them, and poured them into glasses.

  ‘So,’ she began, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Just stopping by, see how you’re doing,’ said Ashikin with studied indifference.

  Rosnah leaned over, laughing at Ashikin. ‘Kin, everyone I know is trying to match me up. Everywhere I go, there’s always some guy who happens to be there, who I happen to be introduced to. It’s always an amazing coincidence. So, are you also in the marriage market?’

  Ashikin grinned back at her. At least she seemed amused, and not angry. ‘Ros, come on. I’m embarrassed as it is.’

  ‘So, I’m right.’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘Azmi. Yes. What did you think?’ she asked boldly. Well, she told herself, the secret was already out, so there wasn’t any point in playing coy.

  ‘Seems nice.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m trying to be very discreet here!’ Ashikin complained. ‘I’m trying to ask you this without anyone getting upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset,’ Rosnah seemed genuinely surprised. ‘I’m just asking. You’re my friend, not some Mak Cik I don’t know, so why shouldn’t I ask you?’

  ‘OK. You can ask me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she repeated patiently.

  ‘It means,’ Ashikin took a deep breath, ‘would you welcome any further interest, or would you rather wait?’

  ‘Ah. You mean a visit to my parents?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m just asking to see how you feel. This isn’t official or anything.’

  ‘OK, it’s unofficial; then, let me see. Well, he’s nice.’

  ‘Would you like to have lunch, the four of us? That way you can see him again without having to commit to anything.’

  Rosnah nodded. ‘That could work. Just exploratory, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Yes, great. Let’s do it.’

  ‘I thought maybe a satay breakfast on a Friday.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  The two smiled at each other, pleased with the arrangements they’d made. ‘Great!’ said Ashikin enthusiastically. ‘Well, I’ll let you get back to your work. I’ll be by as soon as I know a day when he’s coming back.’

  ‘Thanks, Kin.’ Rosnah waved goodbye. ‘Daud, hi!’ He waved back at her as he swung his leg over the motorbike.

  ‘Hi!’ he called, waiting for Ashikin to climb aboard. With that, they drove away down the road, while Rosnah stood for a few moments, watching them go.

  * * *

  Aziz, following Zainab’s advice, gave a kenduri for Zaiton and Rahim to celebrate their wedding. All the families in Kampong Penambang attended, or at least sent representatives, so it was counted a great success and social event.

  Maryam approved. If Aliza, God forbid, was ever in such a situation (the very thought made her feel faint), then that’s exactly what she would do.

  No one was fooled. Why else would they have run away to get married in Sungei Golok instead of having a real ceremony at home? Of course, it would have been unseemly to do it so soon after her mother died, and therefore it was clear that time was of the essence. Which led everyone to the correct conclusion.

  Nevertheless, by the time the baby arrived, most people would be hazy about how much time had actually elapsed, while those who were clear about it would never say anything, and the whole thing would fade away. Zainab consoled her father with the fact that two years from now, no one would even remember there hadn’t been a wedding here in Kelantan – they’d remember the kenduri and that would be enough.

  It was excellent advice and followed to the letter. After the celebration, the young couple moved in with Aziz and kept him company. He found himself counting the days until his grandchild’s arrival, no matter what its inception had been.

  * * *

  Rest was the order of the day in Kampong Penambang. Maryam had been convinced to take several days off, leaving the business to Ashikin, and she admitted it had helped a great deal. Rubiah had been catering all the meals, refusing to allow her cousin near the kitchen. New platters of cakes, in tempting assortments, arrived daily. If necessary, Rubiah would stand over them until every last one was eaten.

  Both Aliza and her mother filled out a little and lost some of the drawn and hunted look they had earlier. To help them mend, Mamat ofte
n brought their favourite foods home, as well as candy, and although Maryam didn’t necessarily agree with it as a healthy choice, she did not have the energy to argue or to spoil Mamat’s pleasure in spoiling them.

  Aliza checked the mirror several times an hour to see if her hair had grown in, and indeed, there was a crop of very short fuzz now covering her scalp. Her parents found it very comforting; it had been difficult for them both to see her bald and fragile.

  * * *

  Maryam’s mind had not been still while she was at home, though Rubiah had refused until now to be drawn into any discussion of the case. Today, however, Maryam felt it was time, and insisted she listen. Rubiah watched over the tops of her eyeglasses, as she quietly picked out Maryam’s favourite cakes and pushed them toward her. These were not the custardy sort, they were much simpler (though no less sweet), and Rubiah approved the choice as a ladylike and appropriate one.

  ‘There’s one thing that bothers me,’ Maryam began.

  ‘Only one?’ She rolled her eyes.

  Maryam ignored the irony. ‘Murad and his wife. Osman told me he spoke to her, but she didn’t make a lot of sense. I think he wrote her off after that, but I’m not sure about that. I think she’s craftier than everyone thinks, though I’m not saying she isn’t crazy. But she isn’t … harmless crazy.’

  Maryam resolutely polished off two onde-onde cakes in quick succession to prove she was thinking hard and on top of her game. ‘I’m not falling for it.’ She then ate a third as a show of bravado, and considered a fourth. Why not? Everyone said she was too thin, and how long had it been since she’d worried about that? She couldn’t remember.

  Rubiah considered this. ‘I think she’s crazy, too,’ she admitted. ‘I haven’t considered her at all, she’s like a ghost.’

  ‘Exactly. A ghost. No one sees what they’re up to, ghosts.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Rubiah thought she knew what was coming.